


Under the Weather

by Funtimewriter



Category: Adam Levine (Musician), Blake Shelton (Musician), The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Caring Blake Shelton, Illnesses, M/M, Sick Adam Levine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 23:03:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16147394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funtimewriter/pseuds/Funtimewriter
Summary: Adam is miserably sick.  Blake tries to make him feel better





	Under the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Last night I went to an M5 concert, and poor Adam was just miserably sick! I was telling Nutcracker about it, and she got inspired to draw, which in turn inspired me to write. So here it is!
> 
> If you want to see some pictures and links to videos, check my Twitter!

            Adam Levine refused to disappoint his fans, especially not an entire arena of them.  His voice was giving him hell.  It frequently cracked.  His pitch was off, his vibrato was non-existent, and there was a roughness that marred the usual crystalline quality of his sound.  Again and again, he reached for a note that just wasn’t there.  And it pissed him off.  He’d stood up on stage, admitted he wasn’t feeling well.  Then he’d announced that he didn’t care.  He wasn’t giving up.  He was going to get through tonight or die trying.

            The cheers and excitement of the crowd energized him.  He powered through song after song, forcing his falsetto out of a scratchy throat that fought him every step of the way.  He wouldn’t back down, even pushing his voice through a high flourish.  The crowd roared in approval.  By the time Adam finally left the stage, he knew that, despite everything, he’d given the crowd a good show.

            Now all he had to do was get through the rest of his illness.

            In retrospect, maybe pushing his voice the way he’d done had been a bad idea.  But Adam had always been a perfectionist.  His competitive spirit had gotten him and his band this far through a cutthroat industry.  If he’d have put on a bad show word would spread fast.  And cancelling a concert was pretty much out of the question. Besides, he hated to disappoint his fans.  But now he was paying the price.  His throat felt like he’d swallowed flaming swords.  His chest seemed full of the phlegm that he constantly coughed up, further aggravating his already inflamed throat.  His body ached, and he just couldn’t get warm.  He was constantly shivering.

            Yes, he was well and truly sick.

            Adam got a warm shower that helped a bit with his chill, but used up most of his energy.  Then he felt cold again as soon as he stepped out of the water.  He barely had the strength to get dressed.  He pulled on a light blue sweater over his shirt and went into the kitchen, managing to make and consume some soup. It helped his throat a bit.  But it did little to restore his energy. Last night, he’d been racing all over the stage, constant motion.  Today, he barely felt able to stand.

            He tried to watch some television, but nothing really held his interest.  Miserable, Adam pulled his sweater around himself and curled up on the sofa.  He was certain he was about to pass away.  The Grim Reaper would arrive any moment.

            Blake arrived instead, smiling and cheerful and singing happily to himself as he strolled in.  Adam immediately hated him.  “Blake?” he called hoarsely.  “Just so you know, I am as we speak murdering you horribly in my mind.”

            “Ouch, your voice sounds rough buddy!”  The sound of boots came closer.  Blake peered over the couch and gave a low whistle.  “Wow, you look even rougher than you sound.”

            “Yes, thank you, Blake.”

            “How the hell did you get through your concert last night?”

            “I have no fucking clue.”  Adam coughed, hacked up phlegm, spat it into a twist of kleenex, and tossed the mess into the wastebasket.  “All I know is, right now, I would welcome death.”

            Blake’s face twisted into a frown as he heard his Rockstar cough.  He quickly hurried away and fetched a blanket.  This he placed carefully over Adam, wrapping it around him until the smaller man resembled a burrito.  Adam grumbled quietly, letting himself be wrapped.  “Did you eat?” Blake asked.

            “Some soup.”

            “Alright, let me get you some ice water.  That will help your throat.”

            Adam was too miserable to reply.  The blanket felt nice.  It was wrapped tightly around him and he was finally starting to feel warmer. Then Blake returned with a glass of water, chunks of ice tinkling lightly against the glass, and brought the straw to Adam’s parched lips.  Adam sipped gratefully.  “Ok, I suppose I won’t murder you after all.”

            “So glad I could thwart your homicidal tendencies.” Blake put the glass down nearby and walked away again.  This time, he returned with cough syrup measured on a spoon.  “Say ‘ah’ for me!”

            Adam scowled, but opened his mouth.  The cough syrup tasted foul.  He immediately reached for the ice water, but Blake slapped at his hand.  “Nuh uh! Part of how it works is that it coats your throat!  You drink something and that spoils it.”

            “Dammit, Big Country, my throat is killing me!”

            “Be right back!”

            Once again, Blake disappeared.  When he returned, it was with a spray bottle.  “Open wide!”

            The throat spray didn’t taste much better than the cough syrup.  But at least it numbed Adam’s throat.  Adam sighed and snuggled into the pillow.  “Now go away and come back with a shotgun or something to put me out of my misery!”

            Blake smiled down at him.  “You warm yet?”

            “I’m warmer, but I’m still pretty miserable,” Adam confessed.

            “Maybe I can help.”

            Before Adam could ask what he had in mind, Blake had climbed over him on the couch.  The big cowboy carefully slid his body behind Adam against the back of the couch. Then he draped himself over Adam, the smaller man still wrapped in his blanket burrito.  “How’s that?”

            Adam’s eyes were already closed.  The heat of the larger man draped over him was heavenly. “Better,” he sighed.  “So much better!”

            Blake kissed his temple.  “Love you, Rockstar.  Get some rest.”

            “Love you too.”  That was the last Adam was able to manage before, warm at last, he drifted off into a healing sleep.


End file.
